Message

Zakiyyah Dzukogi

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a messenger told us
we’ll slay our mothers
and sit on her mat,
that we’ll hit our fathers
on the head
and adore the colour
of his hair.
my body is cold-
all of us
at the house
will collect our dimes
and try finishing up
our poems.
keep my script
In my mother’s bag-
we’ll go drunk
Into mama’s kitchen.
sway a little on Noah’s feet,
we can only write sonnets.
gather those poems
and get them burnt.